Forensic Science: Crime on File #4: The Girl Who Screamed
Except for the silver flash of a great jet plane as it took off from the nearby airport, the treelined street could have belonged in an earlier, more peaceful America. Yet Sara Hull shuddered even as she stopped at the low steps of a neat white house and called over the engine noise, “Hello, Mrs. Gordon!”
“Why, Miss Hull,” the old woman in the porch rocker shouted back. Then, more softly, as the plane winged away and Sara settled into a companion rocking chair, “What brings you way out here?”
“I’ve brought the book you had on reserve,” Sara explained, holding out the novel in a bright dust jacked. “But, I guess you realize I wanted to talk to you too.” Again a cold chill shivered up her spine as she thought of the terrible night a week before when a young girl, tenant in Mrs. Gordon’s upstairs apartment, had been murdered in the yard behind the house. Almost as shattering, Glen Roper, one of Sara’s young assistants, had been accused of the crime. Sara believed Glen’s story: He had been waiting for a friend who lived across the street ,and had seen the girl go down the narrow alley into the backyard, where outside stairs led to her apartment. A few seconds later, a rough-looking man had followed her. Glen had called out, “Watch out, miss!” Then he had heard a piercing scream. Leaping out of his car, he had rushed into the yard in time to see the man escaping over the fence. He had been bending over the girl, lying in a pool of blood, when a policeman who had also heard the scream came to investigate. By then the murderer was gone, and Glen was the only logical suspect. His one witness was Mrs. Gordon, who had been sitting on her porch, just as she was now, on the night of the murder. But she had refused to verify that he had not rushed past her until after her tenant’s scream.
“Mrs. Gordon,” Sara began hopefully, “Glen is a fine boy. Are you sure –”
“Of course I’m sure,” Mrs. Gordon snapped, her eyes glittering. “Fine, fiddlesticks. None of them are fine, with their long hair – that girl, one man after another. That’s why I didn’t notice who went back there after her. And as far as that scream they talk about goes – I didn’t hear it. I’m deaf. Right now, I’m talking to you because I’m reading your lips. Couldn’t have heard a scream. I told the police, and I’ll go to court –”
“And so will I,” said Sara Hull. “You don’t like young people, Mrs. Gordon, but that’s no reason to tell a lie that can ruin Glen’s life. I’ll testify that I know you’re lying.”
Except for the silver flash of a great jet plane as it took off from the nearby airport, the treelined street could have belonged in an earlier, more peaceful America. Yet Sara Hull shuddered even as she stopped at the low steps of a neat white house and called over the engine noise, “Hello, Mrs. Gordon!”
“Why, Miss Hull,” the old woman in the porch rocker shouted back. Then, more softly, as the plane winged away and Sara settled into a companion rocking chair, “What brings you way out here?”
“I’ve brought the book you had on reserve,” Sara explained, holding out the novel in a bright dust jacked. “But, I guess you realize I wanted to talk to you too.” Again a cold chill shivered up her spine as she thought of the terrible night a week before when a young girl, tenant in Mrs. Gordon’s upstairs apartment, had been murdered in the yard behind the house. Almost as shattering, Glen Roper, one of Sara’s young assistants, had been accused of the crime. Sara believed Glen’s story: He had been waiting for a friend who lived across the street ,and had seen the girl go down the narrow alley into the backyard, where outside stairs led to her apartment. A few seconds later, a rough-looking man had followed her. Glen had called out, “Watch out, miss!” Then he had heard a piercing scream. Leaping out of his car, he had rushed into the yard in time to see the man escaping over the fence. He had been bending over the girl, lying in a pool of blood, when a policeman who had also heard the scream came to investigate. By then the murderer was gone, and Glen was the only logical suspect. His one witness was Mrs. Gordon, who had been sitting on her porch, just as she was now, on the night of the murder. But she had refused to verify that he had not rushed past her until after her tenant’s scream.
“Mrs. Gordon,” Sara began hopefully, “Glen is a fine boy. Are you sure –”
“Of course I’m sure,” Mrs. Gordon snapped, her eyes glittering. “Fine, fiddlesticks. None of them are fine, with their long hair – that girl, one man after another. That’s why I didn’t notice who went back there after her. And as far as that scream they talk about goes – I didn’t hear it. I’m deaf. Right now, I’m talking to you because I’m reading your lips. Couldn’t have heard a scream. I told the police, and I’ll go to court –”
“And so will I,” said Sara Hull. “You don’t like young people, Mrs. Gordon, but that’s no reason to tell a lie that can ruin Glen’s life. I’ll testify that I know you’re lying.”